Maha Geeta #14

Life is a duality. And whatever exists here must also have its opposite, whether we know it or not. Where there is love, there is hate; where there is light, there is darkness; where there is the divine, there is matter. So within the life-drive (jiveshana) the death-drive must also be hidden.

Freud’s statement is not a distortion of the modern age. He made a very deep discovery. The life-drive has been discussed forever; Freud’s little contribution to the genius of the world includes the idea of the death-drive. It is true that man wants to live; it is equally true that there are moments when man wants to die.

Think a little: when you are young you want to live. Then one day you grow old; the body slackens, the limbs tire. What was worth knowing has been known, what was to be done has been done, what was to be enjoyed has been enjoyed. Now everything turns insipid; nothing has any juice left; all seems repetitive; boredom arises—would you not want to die? Would a deep voice within not begin to say, “Enough now—let the curtain fall, let the play end”?

What the seers of the East have called vairagya, dispassion, is a shadow of the death-drive. What Buddha called nirvana is the ultimate formulation of the death-drive.

What is nirvana? We say, in this land, it is freedom from the cycle of birth and death. What does that mean? It means: life has been enough, now we do not want to return; there is a limit—we are tired and we long for supreme rest. This is what Freud calls the death-drive. Do not be frightened by the word. Jiveshana is attachment; the death-drive is dispassion. Jiveshana keeps you bound to maya; the death-drive will free you. Even Freud himself was not entirely clear about the full meaning of what he had discovered. He arrived at the death-drive at the very end of his life—perhaps he himself was filled with the death-drive then. He became uneasy, because all his life he had researched lust, libido, Eros. In his final hours he discovered the death-drive too. He was startled, for he was a logical man. It disturbed him: this would contradict a lifetime’s findings. He had always said that man lives out of a madness for life, that sexuality, Eros, is the very basis of human life. Now, suddenly, at the final hour, he found within that there is also a longing to die. What then of Eros, of the life-drive?

Freud was no follower of Lao Tzu; he followed Aristotle. He found it difficult to accept the opposite. He had a scientific mind and wanted to solve everything with one principle, one hypothesis, without introducing a second. And this was not merely a second—it contradicted his entire life’s search, an antithesis, a challenge to it. But the man was honest. He did not hide it. A man of lesser integrity would not have raised this second point at all. Who, in the last moments of life, would disturb what he has built? To insert, in the end, a hypothesis opposed to what forty years of tireless work had established would throw the whole edifice into disarray. A less authentic man would have avoided it—there was no compulsion; he could have kept silent. No, he did not worry. He knew: even if my entire perspective collapses, even if contradictions enter my statements, so be it; what I have seen I will say. With much hesitation he propounded the theory of the death-drive.

And in my view, his life’s search would have remained incomplete had he not found this second thing.

When you inquire very deeply into the life-drive, there itself you will find the opposite hidden. That is why it is said that the moment birth happens, death also begins. The tone of death is hidden in life. The moment something is made, it begins to unmake. Whatever is formed will dissolve; whatever is gathered will scatter.

So alongside our life, the shadow of death must also be walking. One foot is life, the other foot is death—we walk balanced on both.

The third discovery is India’s. It is this: we are neither life nor death; these two are our legs. Duality appears such only when we fail to see the third. If the third becomes visible… synthesis.

Understand it so: the notion of Eros, the life-drive, is the thesis. Then Thanatos, the death-drive, is the antithesis. If only the two remain, there will only be conflict; resolution becomes difficult.

Had Freud lived a little longer—he did not—or in some next birth searched further, the synthesis, the dialogue, might have happened too: the final harmony, when he would have grasped the witness. He was on the right path; the destination was still incomplete, but the way was not wrong. The goal had not yet arrived; the journey was unfinished, but the direction was right. From life he had reached death; now only one move remained: to transcend both life and death.

Astavakra calls that the witnessing state. You are neither life nor death. Life and death are games you play by choosing. And if you choose one, the other must be chosen as well. Whoever chooses love will have to accept hate too. Whoever chooses honor must accept dishonor. Whoever chooses the smile will not escape tears. They go together. There may be a delay here or there, but the duality stays paired.

As long as you choose, the opposite gets chosen by itself. Whether you want it or not is not the question. You choose one side of the coin, and the other side comes into your hand automatically. Whether you notice it years later—what difference does it make? It has come. Do not choose; be the witness of both—then you have gone beyond both. Freedom from coming and going, from life and death, from birth and death, can happen.

One has to search for the third. Only the third is glorious, supremely glorious. Only the third truly matters.

You ask, “Is the discovery of the death-drive a spiritual aberration of the modern age?”

No. In modern language it is the discovery of dispassion, of vairagya. It is a new word. What does viragi mean? Only this: he says, now I want to take leave. The strings of the veena have snapped; now I want to depart. The viragi says: this seems to be no place to make a home; let me go. This is indeed a longing to die.

Even Freud did not fully understand. In this context he thought that Buddha is filled with the death-drive. In one sense that is right, for jiveshana is no longer there, there is no longer any desire to live. That thirst, that hankering, is gone. There is no lust for life anymore.

So Freud thought Buddha is filled with the death-drive, and that Buddhism is a religion for those who want to die, for people full of despair, depression, anguish—negative. He went a little way, but the whole did not come into his grasp.

Buddha’s religion is neither the religion of raga (attachment) nor of viraga (dispassion), but of vitaraga—beyond attachment and beyond dispassion. The supreme sannyasin is vitaragi: even dispassion no longer has any charm. That is the highest peak of consciousness. When attachment to attachment falls, there is dispassion; when even attachment to dispassion falls, there is vitaraga. The worldly begins to loosen from the world—he becomes a renunciate; then he rises beyond renunciation—he becomes vitaragi.

Even in dispassion a little attachment remains—because it arises from attachment. Someone is attached to wealth; another becomes attached to poverty, saying there is great bliss in having nothing. Someone is attached to clothing; another becomes attached to nudity—great bliss in being sky-clad! Someone says: women are needed for happiness, or men, or a beautiful body; another says: no—far from women, far from men, far from bodies; in the forest, in solitude, utterly alone—there is happiness. But these are the two faces of the same coin. They appear opposed, yet they collaborate.

The state of vitaraga lies beyond both; the whole coin is dropped. Krishnamurti calls that state choicelessness, nirvikalpata—the absence of choice. Freud certainly came close. He was an extraordinary man. But he had his limits. He was never properly acquainted with the religions of the East. His mind had been filled with opposition by Christianity and Judaism.

Christianity and Judaism are not very high expressions of religion; they are rather ordinary expressions—little refinement, more politics than religion, more business than religion. Religion appears formal. On Sunday a man goes to church and thinks the matter is settled. It is a Sunday religion; for the other six days there is no purpose. There is some place for prayer, none for meditation; no notion of samadhi. So it was not a very lofty vision.

Freud was familiar only with these two religions. He had no acquaintance with the religions of the East—the Upanishads, the Tao Te Ching, Zen, Tantra, Tilopa, Bodhidharma, Nagarjuna, Vasubandhu, Dharmakirti. He knew nothing of such lotuses that had bloomed. Hence his limits. He took the West’s ordinary religions to be religion.

If one wants a deep understanding of religion, one must dive into the East; just as, to understand science, one must dive into the West. The West’s original genius has manifested in science; the East’s genius has manifested in religion. In the East the scientist is of a middling grade. What you call a scientist in the East is of little real value; he is a technician, not a scientist; he learns from the West—his knowledge is borrowed. The East seems not to have a native genius for science, for science needs logic and mathematics; the East’s genius is poetic, mystical; it has blossomed in music and meditation.

So if anyone wishes to know religion rightly, he must become acquainted with the East. If you want to study science, go to Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard. But if you want to study religion, wander in the lanes of the East, in its valleys and hills. To understand science, the Western current has carried science to its precise conclusions, has given logic its ultimate consummation. If you want to hear the unreasoning heart, the innermost, then listen in the silence of the East; its humming, its resonance, is in the East.

Freud’s limitation was that he was not acquainted with the East. Marx had the same limitation. Both made anti-religious pronouncements. Their anti-religious statements have little value, because they were made by the unacquainted, not by the acquainted. They did not speak out of knowing; they spoke from a superficial acquaintance. They did not dive deep; they did not bring back pearls from the depths of the East. They did not meet Buddha. They did not encounter Lao Tzu. They did not hear Krishna’s flute.

These were the limits; otherwise perhaps Freud would have attained that synthesis, that supreme harmony, which is vitaragata. But what he said about the death-drive is true. We have always known it. We did not call it the death-drive—true; we called it vairagya-bhava.

But what does vairagya-bhava mean? If raga means the desire to live more, then vairagya means the desire not to live anymore—enough, sufficient, we are full, now we wish to take leave.

No, it is not a perversion of the modern mind; by a modern scientific method the old vairagya has been given a new name. Auspicious! In my view, Freud’s death-drive should be studied deeply. It has been neglected, just as we neglect death. His libido, sexuality, has been much studied—big books have been written; but the death-drive has been studied very little. It is a most valuable discovery, and he offered it in the final mature days of his life—so its value becomes even deeper.

Only remember this much: everything in life is dual. Life proceeds through duality. The day you awaken from duality, life stops. The day you awaken from duality and become non-dual, you too will say, like Janaka: “Wonder! That I was born so many times and never was I born—and died so many times and never did I die! Wonder! My salutations to myself! So many births, so many deaths came and went and left not even a line upon me! So many virtues and sins, so many occupations and affairs came and went like dreams, leaving not even footprints behind! Wonder at my ultimate purity! Wonder at my virginity. Blessed! My salutations to myself!”

One day such a fragrance will arise within you too, in your innermost core.

But remember: one has to arrive at the non-dual. Wherever you see duality, practice witnessing. Take duality as an intimation that the hour for witnessing has come. Wherever you see duality—love and hate—do not choose; become the witness of both. Anger and compassion—do not choose; witness both. Woman and man—do not choose; witness both. Honor and insult—do not choose; witness both. Pleasure and pain—be the witness. Wherever you see duality, become the witness there.

If you hold fast to this one golden thread, the state of vitaraga is not far. Drop by drop the pot fills; likewise, drop by drop, by cultivating this choicelessness, the pot of your samadhi will fill, and one day you will overflow. Not only will you be established in samadhi; those who come near you will also receive the fragrance of samadhi—they too will be filled with a certain unearthly bliss.

It is neither baffling nor a riddle. It’s very simple: can you see darkness or not? And yet darkness has no existence. Darkness is only absence. Still, can you see darkness or not? You can. Your seeing it does not prove that darkness exists. When you see darkness you are in fact seeing that there is no light—what else are you seeing? When you say you see darkness, you are not seeing a something called darkness; you are seeing the absence of light. Darkness is not—cut it, you cannot; tie it, you cannot; push it, you cannot; burn it, you cannot; erase it, you cannot. How could darkness be? If something is, we can do something with it. What is the proof of being? That something can be done with it. What is the proof of non-being? That nothing can be done with it.

Your room is filled with darkness—bring swords to cut it, shove it with your shoulders, call wrestlers, create mayhem—you will only tire yourself and get hurt; the darkness will remain where it is. You can do nothing to darkness, because darkness is absence.

Yes, with light you can do a great deal. If a lamp is burning, blow it out—and the light is gone. If the lamp is out, light it—and light is there. If not in this room, bring it from another. If not in your house, borrow from a neighbor. With light you can do a thousand things.

Notice: even to do something “to” darkness, you end up doing something with light. To remove darkness, you light a lamp—but what you are acting upon is light. To bring darkness, you extinguish light—but again you act upon light. With what is, something can be done. Yet darkness is still visible.

So it is with the ego. It has no existence. It is the absence of the Self. Because you do not know yourself, the ego appears. The day you know yourself, the ego will be nowhere to be found. In the state of the Self there is no ego. Having forgotten yourself—amnesia has set in—you no longer remember who you are. Without some image to lean on, you can’t function, so you fabricate an imagined persona called the ego: “I am this—my father’s name, my family’s name, my address, my degrees, my certificates, what people say about me…” You assemble a file. With it you manage to create some sense of yourself, a shape to operate by—otherwise life would become very difficult.

If someone asks, “Who are you?” and you want to answer truthfully, you’ll just stand there. He will ask again, “Brother, won’t you speak? Who are you?” and you’ll shrug your shoulders. That would be the true answer, because you too don’t really know who you are. He will think you are mad. “Where are you coming from?”—you can’t truly answer, because you don’t know from where you come. “Where are you going?”—no idea. So you will be taken as insane.

It would be great confusion if everyone began to do this. If all people abandoned false assumptions about themselves, great difficulties would arise. False assumptions are useful in this false society. In this illusory world of Maya, false assumptions are useful. They get the job done. Whether they are true or false is beside the point; they are functional.

That is why, when people set out on the search for the Self, great fear grips them, because all these false assumptions have to be dropped. What you have always assumed—“this is my name, this is my address, this is my body, I am the body, this is my mind, these are my thoughts, this is my religion, this is my nation”—all begin to fall away. With them, “my I” begins to scatter, to melt, to disappear. A moment comes when you remain in a silent emptiness, where you have no idea who you are.

To live through that moment is tapascharya, spiritual austerity. It is a great austerity when you have absolutely no sense of who you are. When all the palaces built by your concepts have collapsed, when you stand in dense darkness, in emptiness, with not a single ray of light about who you are—the Christian mystics have aptly named this the Dark Night of the Soul. And only after this dark night does the dawn come. Whoever is afraid to pass through it never reaches the morning.

So first the false notions have to be dropped, false identifications abandoned. A time will come when you will forget who you are; it will be a state like madness. If you are courageous and pass through this, then another time will come when the morning sun rises; for the first time you will know who you are. When it is revealed to you who you truly are—essentially, ultimately—then you understand that the ego was a pragmatic truth.

This should be understood: the distinction between pragmatic truth and ultimate truth. I hand you a piece of paper and say, “This is a hundred-rupee note.” You say, “It’s just a piece of paper.” I hand you a hundred-rupee note and say, “It’s a piece of paper.” You say, “No, it’s a hundred-rupee note.” Both are pieces of paper. The one you call a hundred-rupee note is a pragmatic truth, not an ultimate one. If the government changes, or the government changes its mind and announces this morning that hundred-rupee notes are no longer legal tender—instantly the note becomes just a piece of paper. People will throw them on the garbage heap. What will you do with them? Yesterday you guarded them so carefully; today you will give them to the children to play with, make paper boats and float them on the river. What can you do? It was a pragmatic truth, an agreed-upon truth. It was true because it was agreed upon. Everyone believed it; therefore it functioned. Everyone refused it; the matter ended.

The ego is a pragmatic truth—the currency note of a hundred rupees. Believe in it, and it “is.” And it is needed for life. I am not telling you to drop the ego and become a misfit in life. I am saying: awaken from the ego. Understand that it is a pragmatic truth, not an ultimate one. Use it—fully! You will have to. But don’t take it as reality. Taking it as reality creates great obstacles. What we assume, we begin to see.

Yesterday I was reading an incident—a psychological experiment at Harvard. A very renowned psychologist, famous across the nation and beyond, was asked to cooperate. “There is a madman, his mind is deranged, and he declares that he is a great psychologist—he even claims he is Dr. So-and-so from another university. Please treat him. We want to film your interactions so we can study them later.” The psychologist agreed.

They went to the other psychologist—the one whose name the madman was using. “There is a lunatic who thinks he is you. Will you treat him? We want to film it.” He too agreed.

They brought the two eminent psychologists into a room, each believing the other to be the madman who, under a delusion, was claiming to be a great psychologist. “Who are you?” they were asked. Both gave their true names—true for them. The other smiled: “Completely insane! Look what he thinks he is!” Each began to devise a method to treat the other. And the more one tried to treat the “madman”—for each took the other to be mad—the more the other was astonished: “Incredible! There must be a limit to madness! He is not only mad, he thinks I am mad and is trying to cure me!”

For ten minutes the situation must have been extraordinary. After ten minutes, one suddenly felt, “This face seems familiar. I think I’ve seen his photograph in the newspapers. Could it be that he really is who he claims to be?” And as soon as that glimmer came, the whole memory returned. He had read the man’s books; the words he was using began to be recognizable. Then he realized what the setup was. It was an experiment demonstrating how, on the basis of an assumption, what we assume begins to appear true. Then both burst into laughter. They recognized the real situation. Neither was mad any longer. But for ten minutes both were mad, each thinking the other was mad. For those ten minutes, the situation was a pragmatic truth, not an ultimate one. It collapsed the moment the fact was remembered.

I read of another experiment. At a university, a famous German musician came to perform. He knew only German, with just a few English words. One of his students came out first and introduced him to the audience. He said that the composition to be played was utterly unique, perhaps unmatched in human history. “Its special feature,” he said, “is that though the musician remains completely serious, the piece is a deep satire. Unfortunately, you don’t know German and won’t fully get it, but in Germany wherever he performs, people roll in laughter; fountains of mirth erupt; people clutch their bellies; their stomachs ache from laughing. And the beauty is that he keeps his grave, solemn demeanor—doesn’t even smile. The more people laugh, the more serious he becomes. That’s his mastery. And that makes the satire even keener. He even gets angry, he starts shouting, ‘What are you doing?’—but that too is part of the satire, that he maintains his grave seriousness! And because of that gravity, the satire in the background becomes sharper, more piercing.”

Then the musician came and began his performance. The student stood behind him. The audience did not know the language, but they were primed. Someone tittered, someone chuckled; then laughter spread. Soon all eyes were on the student standing behind. He would burst out laughing, hold his belly; slowly people began to imitate him—because if he was laughing, there must be something to laugh at. People added their own contributions. The musician became annoyed. He began to shout. He was driven to the point of swearing. He stopped and, with the few English words he knew, protested: “What foolishness is this? I am presenting a serious, very serious piece. And you are behaving like lunatics! You don’t even understand the language and you are rolling with laughter!”

Then people pleaded, “But we were told beforehand…” They looked around—the student had vanished. The experiment was complete. There was nothing humorous there at all. What he was singing was profoundly tragic. But once an assumption takes hold, it begins to feel true—pragmatically.

The ego is an assumption. Everyone has grabbed it. And under that assumption everyone’s chest is being crushed! But it is only a pragmatic truth—useful, yes; real, no. Use it by all means, but never, even by mistake, take yourself to be the ego. Make use of it, but don’t become subject to it. This is the only purpose of witnessing: that from the vantage of the witness you see what is pragmatic and what is ultimate; what truly is, and what is only by agreement.

There is a Sufi tale. A man came to hate his own shadow. Not only that, he came to hate his footprints as well. He had come to loathe himself; so he hated his footprints, and he hated his shadow. He wanted to be rid of them. He wanted his shadow to disappear. He wanted to leave no footprints on the earth, no trace of himself—to vanish as if he had never been. So he began to run—to escape his shadow and his footprints. He ran for miles. But the more he ran, the more his shadow dragged along with him. The more he ran, the more footprints he made. Finally his mind said, “You are not running properly; you are not running fast enough. This won’t do; your speed is insufficient. Run so fast that the shadow cannot keep up; then the connection will break.” So he ran with all his might—and the story says he fell and died.

The Sufis interpret this tale: such is the human condition. Some are busy embellishing the shadow—setting diamonds and pearls on it, gilding it. “It is our shadow,” they say, “we will adorn it, make it beautiful, sprinkle it with perfume, spread velvet under it. It is not the shadow of some pauper or beggar. It won’t fall on the pebbles of the street; it will fall upon thrones; it will fall upon gold-paved ways.”

Have you seen kings walking? Velvet is spread before them as they proceed; their footprints fall upon velvet. They are not ordinary men that their footprints should fall upon ordinary earth—everybody’s footprints fall on earth.

Some are decorating the shadow—that is one kind of madness. Others are frightened of the shadow—the runaways, the so-called saints. Worldly people decorate the shadow and build palaces around it; and the non-worldly, the so-called renunciates, run away to get far from the shadow. But the shadow is not. To decorate it is delusion; to flee it is delusion. In both cases you will perish. Some will drop dead while busy adorning; some will drop dead while busy fleeing.

The Sufis say: if only that madman had had the sense to sit down in the shade of a tree, the shadow would have vanished. A shadow appears when you stand before the sun, under the open sky. A shadow appears when you stand in the glare, in the light. A shadow appears when you proclaim the ego; when you say, “Let the world see me! Let the world recognize me! Let the world’s spotlight be on me!” When you crave respect and success, then the shadow is cast—in the sunlight.

The Sufis say: if only this madman had withdrawn and sat quietly under a roof, the shadow would have disappeared!

Those who do not seek respect, position, fame and glory—their shadow disappears. They have sat in the shade themselves—how will a shadow form? If only this man had just sat down, the footprints would have stopped forming. Will running stop footprints? On the contrary, more and more will be made.

Have you noticed? Worldly people may be forgotten, but the so-called saints are not forgotten. A worldly man’s footprints are soon erased—there is a great crowd there; millions are passing; who will care about your footprints? Before you are out of sight, your footprints are trampled away. But the saints’ footprints endure; there, few walk. There is little competition. Saints walk very much alone; their footprints remain for centuries.

If only that man had simply sat down in rest—what Ashtavakra called relaxing into one’s own consciousness—then no footprints would be made, the earth would not be scarred, no shadow would form, no need to seek a way to escape the shadow, and he would not die such a sorry death, a dog’s death.

The ego is nothing that you have to get rid of. You only have to wake up and see that it is nothing, a mere shadow. You are running and fretting for nothing. Sit down—there is nothing there. It has a pragmatic utility—use it. When you speak, you will have to say “I.” I too say “I.” Buddha speaks and says “I.” Krishna speaks and says “I.” Yet in them there is nothing like an “I.” They know that “I” is only a linguistic convenience, a practical utility. Dialogue requires it. It is an agreed-upon device, not a truth.

This is all that witnessing means: look carefully at your condition. In that careful seeing you will discern what is and what is not. What is—that is the Self. What is not—that is the ego.

First, these are all just names for one and the same disease. Suppose you fall ill and go to an Ayurvedic physician—he calls it dama. You go to an allopathic doctor—he calls it asthma. Don’t worry that you now have two diseases—that you’re in big trouble: dama as well as asthma! Go to a Unani hakīm or a homeopath and they’ll give still other names; their languages and technical terms differ.

The human disease is one—call it ignorance, call it ego, call it māyā, delusion, unconsciousness, stupor, heedlessness, sin, forgetfulness—whatever you like. One disease, a thousand names.

So first remember this: you don’t have many diseases. Even this will lighten your mind—that there is only one. And you don’t have to treat thousands of diseases; otherwise, if the disease doesn’t kill you, the medicines will.

You don’t have many diseases. Illusion, envy, greed, attachment, anger—these are not separate ailments; they are different expressions, forms, and colors of the same disease, different names for the same thing.

“Ego” is a perfectly apt name; I like it. Because from this “I”-sense everything arises. From “I” comes “mine,” and from “mine” the whole mesh of illusion and attachment is woven. From “I” anger flares up at the slightest hurt. From “I” comes condemnation of others, the urge to raise oneself and push others down. From “I” begins competition—cut‑throat competition: to outdo, to defeat, to declare my victory, to proclaim who I am. From “I” arise struggle, opposition, war, violence. And the more you sink into “I,” the deeper the unconsciousness grows—it becomes a powerful intoxication.

Have you seen an egoist walk? As if always drunk! That is why we call it the intoxication of ego. His feet hardly touch the ground, and he’s instantly ready to clash. He’s looking for someone to collide with, because ego is known only in collision. The greater the clash, the more conspicuous the ego. So the ego seeks an enemy. One name is enough—ego.

Second, I said categorically that you are not wrong in part—you are wrong in toto. This is the ego’s basic strategy: it says, “Granted you’re wrong, but only in part—everyone is wrong in part. A few mistakes—who doesn’t have them? We’ll correct them.” From this, a kind of reformism runs your life; revolution never happens. The ego says, “This is wrong—fix it; the plaster has peeled here—patch it; there’s a hole in the floor—fill it; that wall is weakening—prop it; put a post here; lay new tiles there. The house itself is perfectly fine—only little glitches occur; keep fixing them and one day all will be well.” It will never be well. This is the ego’s fundamental defense: “Only a little is wrong; the rest is fine.”

I want to tell you: as long as the ego is, everything is wrong. It’s not that a corner of the room has light and the rest is darkness—or that a small part is dark and the rest is light. When light is present, it fills the whole room; when it isn’t, it isn’t anywhere.

When the witness awakens, it awakens wholly. It is not that you are a little awake and a little asleep. When your awareness ripens, it ripens in totality.

Beware of this trick of the ego; otherwise you will become a reformist. And then the Great Revolution that happened in Janaka’s life in this Great Gita will not happen for you. It happened in a single instant because Janaka saw, “I was totally, utterly wrong.”

Let me repeat: either you are totally wrong or you are totally right; there is no stopping place in between. For the ego it is very hard to accept, “I am wholly wrong.” The ego says, “I may be wrong, but surely some part of me is right. My whole life—wrong?”

But from just here the revolution begins.

There is an ancient story. A Brahmin constantly taught people, “Whatever is done, God does; we are only witnesses, not doers.” God wished to test him. He entered the Brahmin’s garden in the form of a cow, uprooted the trees, ate the flowers, ruined the grass—laid waste the whole garden. When the Brahmin finished his worship—during which he had been saying, “Thou art the Doer; I am only the seer”—he came out and forgot all about witnessing. The garden had been ravaged; he had built it with great labor and took great pride in it. Even the emperor would come to see it; his flowers had no rival and won every competition. He forgot his prayers and witnessing. He grabbed a stick and began to beat the cow—beat her so much she died. Then fear arose: “What have I done! A Brahmin committing cow‑slaughter? And the Brahmins’ code, the Manusmriti, says this is the great sin—there is none greater.” He began to tremble. Then his “knowledge” came to his rescue: “Fool! You’ve always said we are only witnesses. This too God did. He is the Doer. Did I do anything?” He calmed down.

Villagers gathered: “Maharaj, revered Brahmin—what have you done!”

He said, “Who am I to do anything? God is the Doer. What He wills happens. The cow had to die; she had to be killed. I am merely an instrument.”

The words sounded very wise. Behind the screen of this wisdom the ego hid; behind the screen of knowledge he hid his sin. No one could refute him. People said, “The Brahmin has always taught that we are witnesses; then this too must be true—what could he do?”

The next day God came again, now as a beggar Brahmin. “Ah, what a beautiful garden! Such lovely flowers. Who planted all this?”

The Brahmin said, “Who planted it? I did! Who else? I planted them.”

He proudly showed him around—the trees he had planted and tended. Again and again God asked, “Revered Brahmin, you planted them? Truly?”

Again and again he replied, “Yes, I planted them. Who else would? I am the one. This is my garden.”

When he was taking leave, God—still disguised—said, “Brahmin‑ji, one thing: sweet‑sweet, you gulp; bitter‑bitter, you spit!”

“What do you mean?” asked the Brahmin.

“Think it over,” said God. “When the cow was killed—God did it, and you were the witness; but when the trees were planted—you did it, and God is the witness!”

The ego plays great tricks: sweet‑sweet we swallow, bitter‑bitter we spit. These are its ways of self‑defense. Revolution happens only when you know: I was wrong through and through; totally wrong; my very way of being till now was wrong. There wasn’t a single ray of light in it—it was all darkness. With such a realization, revolution happens—and instantly there is light.

Do not become a reformist. At most, a reformist becomes a respectable gentleman. I want to make you a revolutionary. Revolution will bring saintliness into your life. Your saints are nothing more than respectable men. The real saint is a supreme rebel—rebellious against his own past, his entire past. He severs himself from it; he breaks the continuity. He says, “I have no connection with that past; it was wholly wrong. I was asleep till now; now I am awake.”

When you were asleep, you were asleep—everything was wrong then. It is not that in a dream some things are right and some are wrong; in a dream everything is dream. You cannot bring some things out of a dream and leave others behind. The dream is false in its entirety.

Ego is a swoon, a stupor, a dream. See it as totally false. The ego will try to save something: “I am not entirely wrong; there are many good things.” If you save even a little of the ego, the ego will be saved in full. If from a dream you preserve even one thing as true, the whole dream will be preserved—because the one to whom anything in the dream still appears true has not yet awakened.

Therefore I insist again and again: you are totally wrong. This makes you uneasy. Sometimes you even get angry with me: “Totally wrong? How can we be absolutely wrong!” I leave no loophole for your ego. I tell you: you are wrong through and through. But don’t be depressed by this, because along with it I’m also saying—perhaps you aren’t hearing it—that if you wish, right now you can be totally right. Attend to that lamp of hope. If you are totally wrong, you can be totally right. If you are partly wrong and partly right, you will remain partly wrong and partly right; you will not become wholly right. You will keep dragging your past. You will remain a mixed khichdi. And being khichdi is no joy; being khichdi is hell.

Be pure. Fill yourself with one light. And to be filled with that light, know just this much: what you have taken yourself to be until now—you are not that. You are someone else. Something unknown is hidden within you. An unknown lotus within you is ready to bloom. Turn a little inward! Pause a little; sit in some shade. Don’t run in the glare. Rest! And in that very rest are meditation and samadhi.

I certainly said that a religious person is always a rebel, but I did not say that all rebels are religious. One may be rebellious without being religious, but no one can be religious without being rebellious.

So what is the difference between a religious rebel and a rebel? The ordinary rebel—who is political or social, without religion—can never be at ease. There will be great tension there—twenty-four hours of worry and restlessness.

A religious rebel means: natural ease. Not rebellion for the sake of rebellion; not rebellion against someone—the religious person’s rebellion is the longing to remain in his own naturalness. He wants to live in himself. Whatever obstructs this living-in-himself, he does not accept. He has no urge to break for the sake of breaking. He does not want to be against anyone. He only wants that nothing become an obstacle to his freedom. Nor does he want to obstruct anyone else’s freedom, nor will he allow anyone to obstruct his own.

The religious rebel is not a reactionary. He is not against anyone; he is only on his own side. Keep this in mind. The political rebel has no sense of his own; he is against someone—whoever holds power, he is against—because the power should be in his own hands; if it is in another’s hands, it is wrong.

Political rebellion is the rebellion of the ego. Religious rebellion is the dissolution of the ego and the process of living in one’s spontaneous nature. This does not mean a religious person will create obstacles without cause. If the rule says, “Keep to the left,” he will not insist on walking to the right. A religious person will not, even by mistake, take on the fuss of walking on the right, because right or left—what difference? What is there to quarrel about? He will walk on the left.

You will not see any needless fuss in the life of a religious rebel. On ninety-nine out of a hundred occasions he will be with society—not out of fear, but out of understanding that many things are merely formalities; what meaning do they have? Why quarrel over them? But on one issue—wherever it becomes a question of selling the soul—he will stake everything. He has no problem with walking left or right. He has no problem with following rules. But when a rule begins to be suicidal to the self, there he will revolt; there he will not agree; there he will prefer to die rather than live in a way where the soul has to be lost.

A religious person will have great ease. Tension arises when we struggle against someone. A religious person has no struggle with anyone. His relish is within himself. He wants to live in the surge of his own sweet juice, and he does not want anyone to hinder him; nor does he want to hinder anyone. Quietly, he wants to sink into himself. Only if an obstacle is put in the way of this will he refuse; he will be willing to be crucified.

But you will be amazed to know that no one obstructs your inner soul; people have no idea of the inner soul—how could they obstruct it? People move only on the surface.

Let me tell you an incident, from Ramakrishna’s childhood. From childhood he was a devotee; singing bhajans he would fall unconscious. His name was Gadadhar. His parents became a little worried, as all parents do, that this boy did not seem quite normal. Someone would say he had epilepsy, someone would say he fainted, someone would say he went into samadhi—different people, different explanations. And the boy had no ordinary interests: he did not play with other children; he had no interest in school at all. Ramakrishna never went beyond the second class. He would go into the forest, sit by the river or the pond. And sometimes small incidents... One morning, sitting by the pond, a line of cranes flew across the sky; Ramakrishna went into samadhi. The row of white cranes flying against dark monsoon clouds—enough! Memories of another realm arose. Ramakrishna’s swan took flight—off to Manasarovar! As if the body were left here; he flew into the sky; for hours he remained unconscious.

People began advising his parents: get him married. People know only one remedy—if anything seems a little off, get him married. One medicine for all diseases: throw him into a tangle. So they said, entangle him a little; he has no entanglement—he doesn’t go to school, he does no work, only songs and bhajans and sadhus—he’s getting spoiled already; bind his feet now with a tangle. But they wondered: will he marry? He didn’t look like one who would.

Timidly, his father asked, “Son, will you marry?” Ramakrishna said, “Certainly.” The father was startled—what’s this? It jolted him. He had thought he would refuse. Had he refused, that too would have been a shock; then perhaps they would have tried to persuade him. But he raised no question of refusal. He said, “I will. Whom should I marry?”

Arrangements were quickly made. A girl was found. Dressed as a bridegroom, adorned, Ramakrishna went to see her. He was very pleased. His mother had put eleven rupees in his pocket; he would count them again and again, then put them back. He was very young—perhaps not more than eleven. When they went, the girl came to serve food. She could not have been more than seven at the time—Sarada. When she came to serve, he took out the eleven rupees, placed them at her feet, and touched her feet. Now another trouble!

The father said, “Foolish boy, what are you doing? First the foolishness of agreeing to marry—now this?”

He said, “To me, she appears exactly as the form of the Mother. She is my mother. I will marry—but she is my mother.”

The marriage did happen—and Sarada remained the Mother. This is naturalness; there is no rebellion in it anywhere. He did not refuse marriage; he married as well. He pleased the father, and pleased the mother too. He said, “You want to bind me? All right—put on the bond.” And then he touched the bond’s feet in reverence and made it the Mother. He turned such a prison into a temple; such bondage became liberation.

A religious person will not get into disturbance without cause; there is no reason. The political person is deranged; politics is a kind of neurosis, a kind of frenzy. The political person is always looking for a fight; when there is no fight he becomes very uneasy—what now?

Right now, as in India a “festival of discipline” is going on, the political people are very restless! Some are locked inside the jails; their condition is a bit better—at least, being shut in jail, what can they do anyway? But those who are outside—you don’t know their state—they are squirming. Inside they are unsettled: no strikes, no sloganeering, no “let our flag fly high”—nothing is happening. All of life seems useless. You have no idea how bad the condition of the political folk is! There seems to be nothing to do—no disturbance, no uproar. That uproar is their food.

The political person has a taste for turmoil. To create uproar he looks for reasons—very beautiful reasons: sometimes in the name of the poor, sometimes in the name of freedom, sometimes in the name of democracy—this and that. But he always finds a reason. He must, because without uproar he cannot live. The political person is a kind of restlessness, and restlessness seeks a channel to flow. He needs catharsis, purgation.

The religious person is an effortless peace. On ninety-nine out of a hundred occasions you will not find him in opposition. Yes, on one occasion he will say “no”—he surely will. And when he says “no” on that occasion, that “no” will be absolute, unconditional; there will be no way to turn it into a “yes.”

You can kill Socrates. You can hang Jesus on the cross. You can cut Mansur’s throat. But on that one occasion when he says “no,” his “no” is eternal—you cannot turn it into a “yes.” Because he says “no” only on that one point where it is a question of losing his soul; otherwise he has nothing to lose; otherwise all is a play.

Someone once asked Mulla Nasruddin, “What is the secret of your success?” “Working on right decisions,” Mulla replied. “But how are right decisions made?” the man asked. “On the basis of experience,” said Mulla. “And how is experience obtained?” the man asked again. Mulla thought for a moment and then said, “By working on wrong decisions.”

I’m telling you something: don’t wait for the day when you’ll first have the right decision and then you’ll act. Drop the worry about right and wrong for now. If you wait to decide first and only then do, decision will never arrive. Do something—and out of doing, decision is born.

Don’t just keep listening to me. Whatever delights you—do it quickly. Bring it into your life. Even if I were to pour an ocean into you, it would be of no use; if you can bring a single drop into use, it will prove its worth. That one drop will become your ocean. Don’t keep sitting, saying, “We’ll mull it over, we’ll listen more, understand more, think it through, ask others, compare, draw conclusions—and then we’ll bring it into experience.” You will miss. The rain will fall and pass, and you will remain empty-handed. These clouds will be as if they never came.

Do something. Some small thing that appeals to you! I say “appeals”—I’m not even saying it should satisfy your intellect logically. If something appeals, if a humming begins within you, if some point tickles your heart, if something makes you feel thrilled—do it! It’s not necessary that it be right. I don’t insist on that. But this much I do say: you will benefit by doing it. If it is right, you’ll discover that it is right, and you can go deeper into it. If it is wrong, you’ll discover that it is wrong, and you can drop it—and won’t be trapped a second time by that kind of thing. In every case, doing is what decides.

For example, I speak of witnessing—be a witness! Move your life-energy a little toward witnessing; open a few windows.

Sometimes you even do something—it isn’t that you never act—but even where you act, you go astray in this way: if you are full of anger and you come to listen to me, you keep listening with the technique in mind that perhaps you’ll find a key to rid yourself of anger. Then you can’t hear what I’m actually saying; you’re busy hunting your key. If you are restless, you listen in the hope of finding some formula for peace. And in that way, everything else I am showering is lost to you. Had you understood all of that, the formula for peace would also have been understood.

And if you seize on what I’m saying only in the context of your own problem, its meaning will be distorted. The angry person will start repressing anger. I am saying, “Be a witness,” but in the name of witnessing you begin to suppress. Because your fundamental desire is not to become a witness; your fundamental desire is only to get rid of anger. So you will even use witnessing in such a way that you push anger down. That is not witnessing—that is a miss again.

It happened that a man told me there was great panic at the circus last night. A lion escaped from his cage. “Then what happened?” I asked. He said, “Everyone ran. But there was a saint present; he showed great courage, was not at all afraid.” “What did he do?” I asked. He said, “That saint immediately leapt into the lion’s empty cage and sat there, locking the door from inside.”

Now, whether you run or jump into the cage and lock the door—it may look like opposite procedures, but they are not. In fact, the saint is the more clever fellow, because one thing is certain: the lion may go anywhere, but he is not going to return to the cage of his own accord. Danger is everywhere—everywhere except in the cage.

I don’t wish to make you such saints. People run away from the world and lock themselves in cages. Temples, mosques, gurudwaras are cages—they sit behind bars there. No lions come there. But that too is only a defense; it is not a revolution of life, it is escape.

When you listen to me, listen as one listens to a singer. Listen as one listens to a poet. Listen as one listens to the song of birds, or the gusts of wind in the trees, or the murmur of water, or the thunder of clouds. Listen in such a way that you keep no accounts within. Listen for sheer joy. Sink into the rasa. Don’t come here like a shopkeeper. Don’t sit here doing inner arithmetic—what to pick, what to do, what not to do. Simply listen in the mood of delight.

Swantah sukhaya Raghunath gatha… Swantah sukhaya Tulsi Raghunath gatha!
Swantah sukhaya! Listen for the joy of it. In that joy, while listening, whatever moves you—then take a deeper dip there. Hear my song; whatever link in it you like, start humming it. Let it become your mantra. Gradually you will find that much begins to happen in life without any grand planning.

The wind rose from somewhere, blew,
climbed only higher and higher;
the road lay asleep,
the shrubs along the edge did not start,
no branch trembled,
no leaf cracked;
fine dew clung to the skin,
not a single drop slipped;
the wind rose from somewhere, blew,
climbed only higher and higher.
In the wildwood, standing steady,
yet lost in their own height,
the pines awoke and shivered,
they whispered and sang;
one note, the same nameless Name,
they sang along with the wind.
I got up
and opened the window,
and was startled anew—
it was not silence;
outside the lattice
God was singing.
The wind rose from somewhere, blew,
the road lay asleep.

Don’t lie asleep like the road—don’t sleep like a stone!

The shrubs along the edge did not start,
no branch trembled,
no leaf cracked;
fine dew clung close,
not a single drop slipped.

This wind that I am stirring around you—rise a little to meet it. If you remain lying low, not even a single drop of dew will slip from you; not a single tear will flow. You will remain untouched.

In the wildwood, standing steady,
yet lost in their own height,
the pines awoke and shivered,
they whispered and sang.

Rise a little higher. For the news I bring, be like the pines to receive it. Lift your head a little. Steady yourself a little.

In the wildwood, standing steady,
yet lost in their own height,
the pines awoke and shivered,
they whispered and sang.

One note—the same nameless Name—
they sang along with the wind.

Hum along with me a little. The One of whom I speak—let that humming resound in you too.

One note—the same nameless Name—
they sang along with the wind.

And then you will discover that it is as if a window has opened. What you had taken to be merely a thought—was not a thought; it became meditation. What you had taken to be merely a doctrine, a scripture—was not a doctrine, not a scripture; it became truth.

I got up and opened the window,
and was startled anew—
it was not silence;
outside the lattice
God was singing.

So rise a little. Wake a little. Steady yourself a little. And drop your petty concerns; don’t bring your bookkeeping to me. Drink me in. Be with me as one is with a flower.

Don’t worry about extracting “useful” things from this, because utility has nothing to do with God. Nothing in the world is more “useless” than God. What has God to do with utility? You cannot sell him in the marketplace. Of what use is God? He will serve no purpose—meaningless, purposeless!

If you listen to what I am saying from the angle of utility, you will miss.

I am not a teacher. I am not teaching you useful tips that will help you manage your life. I want to give you a glimpse—whose only “use” is that you will be filled with sat-chit-ananda; that you will become bliss-intoxicated, ecstatic. It is a breeze of ecstasy that I am spreading here. But it depends on you. You can lie like a slab of stone by the roadside—the wind will come and go, and you will remain untouched. Not even a rustle will reach your ears. Or you can remain like the small plants by the path—their tops are not high enough for the sky’s winds to touch them. Not a drop of dew will slip, not a single tear will flow. You will not even know that the wind came and went.

Buddha came—how many knew? A few pine-like trees, standing tall, lost in themselves—at their soaring tips Buddha’s breeze touched. Krishna came—who heard? Krishna’s flute did not reach all. Ashtavakra spoke; a Janaka heard. A few pine-like trees! Rise a little higher!

And listen to me in a way that has no purpose in it. Whoever listens with a purpose will miss. Whoever listens purposelessly, in joy—Swantah sukhaya Tulsi Raghunath gatha—he will attain. In his life, slowly, a revolution begins to happen.

Not necessary at all. Surrender is enough. Recognize your own heart-mind. Nothing needs to be imposed. As your consciousness is, with that very consciousness reach the Divine.

Feminine minds reach the Divine; masculine minds reach the Divine. From where you are, there is a way to reach Him; there is no need to change. And don’t get into the hassle of changing, because you won’t succeed in changing. If your nature is full of feeling, try as you may, you won’t fill it with resolve. If your nature is heart-centered, you won’t be able to organize intellect. Nor is it needed. Don’t enter such confusion. Otherwise, what you are, you will not remain; and what you wish to become, you will not be able to be.

A rose will be offered at the Beloved’s feet as a rose. A lotus will be offered as a lotus. As you are, you are accepted. As you are, so has the Divine made you. As you are, so has the Divine desired you. Do not become distorted, torn and tattered, in the effort to be otherwise. Let me share a small song with you:

Even if you do not speak, still I will hear.
The first ray of dawn will tell it, innocently.
The brook, childlike and unaware, will repeat it.
The snail will slowly trace it on the damp yellow sand.
The murmur of leaves will spread it in whispers here and there.
The bird’s sharp cry will stitch it upon the sky
like a needle through frilled gauze.
Then day will suddenly open and reveal it to all.

Even if you do not speak, still I will hear.
I will hum it within.
You may not speak—
there is faith—
I will not grow inattentive;
then I will hear.

And what citation or proof can I offer for my word?
From now on, only that One will clasp your hand.
To limbs veiled in hesitation,
only His tender curiosity,
a ray of light, will touch.
With you, in solitude,
only He will speak the secret.
You will understand only as much, and in the way,
as He makes you understand.
What is yours to receive,
He will grant as a boon, showering upon you.
The purpose—whatever pleases Him;
the goal, only that toward which He turns you;
your path, bending and bending, will go straight to Him.
You will be your own only to the extent that He takes you as His own.
O soul!
You are given in marriage;
with the Great Void your nuptial rounds have been performed.

The purpose—whatever pleases Him; that is the very meaning of surrender.
The purpose—whatever pleases Him;
the goal, only that toward which He turns you;
your path, bending and bending, will go straight to Him.
You will be your own only to the extent that He takes you as His own.
O soul!
You are given in marriage;
with the Great Void your nuptial rounds have been performed.

If you feel your mind is feminine—auspicious, blessed. The masculine mind has no value in itself; if that is your nature, that too is auspicious, that too is blessed.

The Divine has made only two kinds of minds: feminine and masculine; surrender and resolve. Two paths lead to Him. Begin from where you are. Walk as you are. The Beloved will accept you as you are.

Hari Om Tat Sat!